Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Hilary Bonner
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Saul
Chapter Two
Leo
Chapter Three
Al
Chapter Four
Saul
Chapter Five
Leo
Chapter Six
Al
Chapter Seven
Saul
Chapter Eight
Leo
Chapter Nine
Al
Chapter Ten
Saul
Chapter Eleven
Leo
Chapter Twelve
Al
Chapter Thirteen
Saul
Chapter Fourteen
Leo
Chapter Fifteen
Al
Chapter Sixteen
Saul
Chapter Seventeen
Leo
Chapter Eighteen
Al
Chapter Nineteen
Saul
Chapter Twenty
Leo
Chapter Twenty-One
Al
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Aeolus
Chapter Twenty-Six
Aeolus
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Aeolus
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Aeolus
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
A Selection of Recent Titles by Hilary Bonner
A David Vogel mystery
DEADLY DANCE *
Novels
THE CRUELLEST GAME
FRIENDS TO DIE FOR
DEATH COMES FIRST
* available from Severn House
DEADLY DANCE
A David Vogel mystery
Hilary Bonner
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2017 by Hilary Bonner.
The right of Hilary Bonner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8734-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-852-1 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-912-1 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
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For Chris Clarke
Who planted the seed …
I glimpsed him in the twilight
I lost him in the night.
I thought I had him in the daylight.
There he was before me surely
In all his twisted might,
But I never saw him really.
With a pirouette and a prance,
He led me such a deadly dance
I didn’t stand a chance.
PROLOGUE
The water cascading over my head was cold as the ice in my veins. Only my tears were warm.
I did not deserve the comfort of hot water.
With what I had done.
I scrubbed at my shivering body until my skin hurt. I needed to make myself clean. I deserved pain.
With what I had done.
I was still dirty when I eventually switched off the flow from the shower. Of course I was. Filthy. I doubted I would ever be clean again. Not really.
My right shoulder hurt at the top.
I reached to touch it. My fingers came away stained with my own blood. I had rubbed myself raw.
The sight of the blood turned my stomach. I reached the lavatory just in time. I fell to my knees retching and was sick into the bowl again and again and again. It was as if my body were purging itself. I stood up and stared into the mirror above the basin.
In order to survive, I had to regain control of myself.
The eyes staring back at me were rimmed red because of my tears.
Were they frightening eyes?
They seemed to be expressionless. After all, I was now a frightening man. I had committed an act of pure evil. For the first time? I wasn’t even sure of that.
I hadn’t meant to, of course. Or had I?
I barely knew myself any more.
PART ONE
ONE
The girl had been reported missing by her mother at 2 a.m. when she’d failed to return home. Her body was found three and a half hours later, in the heart of Bristol’s red light district by refuse collectors on the early shift picking up the rubbish put out by the bars and clubs and restaurants.
It was jammed into a boarded-up doorway, behind two wheelie bins towards the top end of Stone Lane, a cobbled cul-de-sac leading from West Street to a row of commercial warehouses and goods depots, all of which would have been empty of people after daytime hours.
There were CCTV cameras protecting the commercial premises and more outside a pair of incongruous, run-down, Edwardian villas set back to the left; but none covering the stretch of cobbled street where the dead girl lay and where she had almost certainly met her death.
There could be no doubt that she had been murdered. Detective Inspector Vogel wondered if the perpetrator had known where the CCTV cameras were positioned and had calculatedly avoided his violent crime being recorded.
Little attempt had been made at concealment. The wheelie bins provided only a partial screen. It was reasonable to assume that the body could not have remained unnoticed, had she lain there during daylight hours the previous day.
The girl had almost certainly been strangled. That seemed clear enough to Vogel before even a preliminary medical examination had been conducted.
The Detective Inspector stood looking down at the skinny little body lying before him. She was the same age as his own daughter. He already knew that she was fourteen.
Her tongue protruded from blackened lips showing the vestiges of vermillion lipstick. Her face was swollen and her neck bruised. Her unseeing eyes were wide open, their dead emptiness emphasised by the dark eyeliner that encircled them and the black fringe of lashes heavy with mascara.
There was dried blood on her face, spattered on h
er clothes, exposed flesh, on the raised step beneath her and over part of the cobbled street.
She looked only tragic now. And so very young. Vogel tried to imagine how she had been the previous evening. She would have appeared considerably older than her years, he thought, which no doubt had been her intention. She’d been wearing a sparkly black top over a denim micro-skirt, black lacy tights and silver shoes with platform soles and very high heels.
Vogel imagined her teetering off on those heels, excited, perhaps just a bit nervous, embarking on what was to be her last adventure.
Her mother had thought she was visiting a school friend for a homework-sharing evening. As time passed and her daughter did not return home, the anxious mother had telephoned the school friend, who’d confessed that she hadn’t seen the girl at all.
The girl surely wasn’t wearing the sort of clothes she would have chosen for an evening at home with a chum. She’d had some other plan. An arranged meeting more than likely. Perhaps with someone she had met on the internet, some pervert who had groomed her and persuaded her to meet him.
Vogel couldn’t know that, of course. He was already aware that no computer had been found at her home. Neither her mother nor her husband, the girl’s stepfather were computer people, apparently. That meant they might not be fully aware of the dangers vulnerable, young people faced from the internet, and the ease with which they could be tempted into high-risk and often out-of-character behaviour. The girl had a laptop, the mother had said, but she’d taken it with her, in the little, pink ruck sack that served as her schoolbag.
Now the rucksack lay on the ground a few feet away from her body. It had her name stencilled on it, at the centre of an elaborate doodle of vibrant, multicoloured butterflies. Mel Cooke. Short for Melanie. That was how the preliminary identification had been made so quickly.
Vogel glanced at his watch. It was 7.05 a.m. on an unseasonably cool, mid-May day. The second Friday of the month. He shivered in the chilly, early-morning air; though the heartbreaking sight of the dead body was probably the cause of that every bit as much as the cold.
His nose was beginning to run and he feared he might be about to have a sneezing fit; something to be avoided at a crime scene. After taking a couple of steps away from the body, he pulled down the zipper of his Tyvek suit (worn to protect the integrity of the scene) and reached into the pocket of his inadequate, corduroy jacket in search of a handkerchief. His fingers brushed against the envelope he had been carrying around with him for over a week. Even now, being reminded of its presence unsettled him. He couldn’t just ignore it, but neither could he think about it at such a moment.
He turned his attention back to the dead girl. Even in the condition she was in he could see that she must have been exceptionally pretty. Her hair was only gently wavy but very black and her skin just dark enough to indicate that she was probably of mixed race.
He wondered if she would have been allowed to go out on a school night if it had not been for her homework sharing story. A lot of parents didn’t insist on that sort of thing any more, of course. But as she had bothered to lie, the indication was that she might otherwise have been kept at home. Not for the first time Vogel reflected on the fine thread from which all human life was suspended.
He stepped carefully towards the pink rucksack. He thought the butterfly drawing was rather well done. Assuming that Mel Cooke herself was responsible for it, maybe she would have grown to be an artist of some kind, like Bristol’s own Banksy, or another Tracey Emin. Banksy’s influence was ever present in Bristol, where those seeking to emulate him plastered the city with graffiti, including on the walls of Stone Lane.
When confronted by murder victims, Vogel could rarely stop himself wondering about their lost lives. What the future may have held for them. What they may have become.
With the fingers of one gloved hand he unzipped the rucksack and peered inside. He could see no laptop, only what appeared to be a change of clothes. He called over a Crime Scene Investigator to empty the rucksack. It contained a pair of jeans, a tee-shirt and a sweater and a pair of trainers.
Vogel had half expected to find those clothes, or some that were similar. The girl’s mother had given a description which indicated that when she’d left home she had not been wearing anything like the provocative outfit in which she’d been dressed when she met her death. He assumed that the skirt and the glitzy top and shoes had been in her rucksack ready for her to change into as soon as she got the chance. Her mother would have taken it for granted that the bag contained schoolbooks for her daughter’s homework session. And her laptop, of course.
Would they never learn, Vogel wondered? He knew the answer, of course. At that age you didn’t see danger. Only the thrill of a new experience. That was how it had always been. Vogel suspected that was how it always would be. Parents could make rules, the police and the media could issue warnings and publicise the dire consequences of rash behaviour. It made no difference, and it never would.
With a heavy heart he glanced back at the dead girl. It was such a damned waste.
Her top had been ripped open, exposing slightly paler skin and one, barely-formed breast. The little skirt had been pushed up around her waist. Her tights and panties, both black, had been torn from her. They lay in shreds alongside her body. Vogel wondered vaguely if the tights had been torn before the attack. He was an observant man. And, in any case, it was impossible not to notice the modern fashion for ripped clothing – jeans as well as tights – favoured by the young. Vogel did not find it attractive and was glad that his own daughter had not shown any tendency towards that particular fashion. Not yet anyway. But he supposed both Rosamund and this poor, dead girl would consider his attitude to be that of a boring, old fogey.
The girl had barely any pubic hair. Vogel blinked rapidly behind his thick, horn-rimmed spectacles. His hands were trembling and he was sweating now, even though the morning air was so cool. He had lost count of the number of murders he had investigated. It never got any easier. And this was a bad one.
Melanie Cooke was just a child to Vogel. He didn’t want to look at that part of her. He felt like a voyeur. With the camouflage of her street-wise attire half removed, she was so very vulnerable.
Her thin legs were covered in scratches from her assailant’s finger nails perhaps as he ripped at her clothing. But wouldn’t he have worn gloves? Vogel wasn’t sure. It would, he supposed, depend on whether or not the attack was premeditated.
Even if a meeting had been arranged with some pervert, even if Vogel was right about that, it did not mean the bastard had meant to kill. It did not even mean that he had meant to assault the girl. Men of that ilk often thought of themselves only as seducers; they believed they were capable of getting their way by persuasion. And sometimes they so captivated and confused their young victims that they were able to do just that.
Not in this case, though, that was clear.
SAUL
I wanted to get married. No, it was more than that. I needed to get married. I’d been married before. But that was when I was little more than a kid and it was just a distant hazy memory. I felt if I had a wife now, the right wife, that would solve everything.
I wanted the security of it. Somebody once wrote that marriage was the deep peace of the double bed after the hurly-burly of the chaise lounge. I’d never known peace. Not in my entire life. Surely I was entitled to some peace? Just like other people. That was all I wanted really, to be like other people.
But I couldn’t quite trust myself, because I never knew when the demons were going to get hold of me. So I didn’t feel able to court a woman in the normal way. Internet dating seemed to be the solution. I liked the anonymity.You can hold back as much of the truth about yourself as you like. Indeed, tell no truth at all, if you wish.
It wasn’t that I was ashamed of myself, what I did, what I was. Far from it, really. But I wanted to be sure that I hadn’t made some dreadful mistake, before I revealed too much about myself. Ther
e were things about me which were difficult to share. I wasn’t a straightforward man. I had certain personal difficulties. I needed to protect myself.
And I wasn’t just secretive. I was also shy.
I googled dating sites first, but most of them were not what I wanted at all. They were all about sex. Sex was incidental to me. I wanted a wife, one who had the same ideals and priorities that I had.
So I signed up to Marryme.com
It was pretty easy. I just had to supply an email address, a picture and write something about myself. And pay a fee, of course. Photo-shop is a wonderful tool; I used a real picture of me and then doctored it. I changed my hair colour, gave myself tinted spectacles and some facial hair, altered the shape of my chin and nose – just a bit. The idea was that, if I ever got to meet a woman this way, she would be able to accept that the picture was one of me – with a different look. After all it’s not just women who do different looks nowadays, is it? But if anyone who knew me happened to log onto the site and call up my details, they wouldn’t recognise me at all. That was what I hoped for, anyway.
Then came the personal details and the message to prospective brides. Clearly the idea is that you should sell yourself or, at least, make an attempt to. I wasn’t very good at that sort of thing. I might not be ashamed of myself, but I suppose I don’t have very high self-esteem. So I’d tried to be brief and factual, whilst making it very clear how serious I was about the outcome of any internet-based liaison. After all, there was no point in not doing so, was there? I certainly wasn’t seeking ‘a bit of fun’, as a lot of would-be internet daters seemed to call any kind of sexual encounter. Indeed, I had never been very good at ‘fun’. The various sexual encounters I’d experienced over the years had, more than anything else, been stressful to me.
I suppose people might regard me as a dull sort of man. I’m certainly awkward socially, which doesn’t help when you are trying to find yourself a wife. So there was no point in trying to portray myself as being a dashing, charismatic sort of chap. I could only hope that I might somehow come across a woman who was like me. She didn’t have to be beautiful or clever or anything special. Just someone who wanted what I wanted.
Deadly Dance Page 1
